Page 5 of Silent Schemes (Broken Blood)

CHAPTER THREE

Varrick

I’m in the office, my hands slick with gun oil, when Will starts pacing back and forth.

He does this when he’s nervous, like a zoo animal with a sixth sense for earthquakes.

The carpet’s thick enough to muffle his steps, but the tension vibrates anyway—up the gunmetal racks, through the antique whiskey decanter, into the fucking drywall.

He’s getting soft in his old age.

The office is glass and steel, high above the city.

The walls are lined with maps of Vancouver, overlays marked in blood and sharpie.

Weapons everywhere, trophies, some loaded, all reachable.

It smells like money, gold, and the cologne I wear to drown out the stench of old murders.

Will’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “She was on the roof for over an hour, King.”

I look up, barrel balanced across my palm, cleaning rod pinched between two fingers. “Who?”

He glares.

I already know the answer.

Make him say it anyway.

“Cross. The girl.”

He doesn’t mean Theo’s wife.

He means Sienna.

The daughter.

The only one worth the air in that rotten family tree.

Will shoves a sheaf of photos across my desk.

Surveillance, high-res.

Sienna crouched on a ledge, shadowed by sunset, one knee up.

She’s holding binoculars, but not looking through them.

Just thinking.

Her hair is knotted back, that silver streak gleaming like a scar.

She’s wearing black again.

Functional, but always tailored.

If you zoom the right way, you can see the knife on her thigh.

“She was up there forty-one minutes. She checked every exit twice.” Will’s pacing is tighter now, like a noose. “She’s planning something.”

I slide the photos back. “She’s always planning something. That’s the point.”

He snatches up the glass of whiskey I left for him, downs it, then slams it back so hard it leaves a ring on the obsidian desktop.

“She’s going to kill you,” he spits.

“Or fuck me,” I say it softly, just to watch him flinch. “Possibly both. The question is which first.”

He slams his palm on the desk. “You think this is funny? Sienna Cross doesn’t bluff, Varrick. She’s a goddamn shark. She doesn’t even have a pause between the hunt and the bite.”

I finish cleaning the barrel, slide the Sig back together, rack the slide.

Safety on. Set it down, right next to the edge of the desk, where he can see it.

“She’ll make her play at The Black Crown,” I say. “Tonight. I’d put money on it.”

Will scrubs at his face. “She’s not coming for a sit-down. You know that.”

“Maybe.” I tilt my chair back. Let the light catch my eyes, let him see there’s not a flicker of fear. “She’s not like her father. She’s better.”

“That’s the problem.”

I pick up the whiskey bottle, pour myself two fingers. “You’re not worried about me, Will. You’re worried about what happens when I’m gone.” I gesture to the room, the empire it oversees. “But you and I both know she’s not going to win.”

He drops into the chair across from mine, exhausted.

The leather groans under his weight. “You say that like it’s predetermined.”

“Nothing’s predetermined.” I sip, savor. “But some things are inevitable.”

He stares at the wall, at the knife display. “She’s good.”

“She’s the best,” I agree.

“So, what’s the plan?” he asks.

I swirl the glass, watch the legs run down the side.

“She’s going to show up at The Black Crown.

She’ll sit at the bar, wait for me to make the first move.

She’ll have a weapon, maybe two. She’ll know I’ll disarm her, so she’ll have a backup I don’t find.

She’ll poison my drink.” I nod at the glass in my hand.

He looks at his, sets it down slowly. “Fuck.”

“We’ll watch her. Let her get close.” I lean in, voice going even quieter. “She wants to see what happens when the wolf bites back.”

Will sighs, then nods, resigned. “Are you going alone?”

“Of course,” I say. “Can’t kill the queen in a crowded room. Has to be up close. Personal.”

He stands, tugging at his cuffs. “You want a tail on her?”

“Already have two.” I gesture to the monitors behind me. “She’s been followed since she left the roof. She knows. She’s playing it like a paparazzi experiment. Cute in a way. Maybe they’ll get a tit shot for my personal collection.”

Will runs a hand through his hair.

He’s lost three shades of color since we started working together. “What if you’re wrong? What if she really does it?”

I set the glass down, and it sounds final. “Then she earns it. And she’ll know what it costs.”

He stares at me for a long beat, then turns for the door. “I don’t like it,” he says, voice tight.

“That’s why you’re not in charge,” I tell him.

It’s not a dig, just a fact.

He leaves.

I let the silence settle, then pick up the Sig.

The weight of it is perfect, like the future.

On the desk, the photo of Sienna stares up at me.

Tonight, then.

Let’s see who gets to draw first blood.

The Black Crown isn’t my favorite bar, but it’s the one I trust not to fuck things up.

I arrive early.

I always do.

I sweep the room with my eyes first, then with my hands—palming every glass, every napkin, every coaster.

Never know where they’ll hide the microphone or the poison.

Tonight, I told Korrin to clear the joint.

No witnesses. No collateral. Only the best kind of risk.

The bar is a black marble slab, reflecting nothing but light and ambition.

The walls are mirrors.

You can see yourself a thousand ways, all of them ugly.

There’s a chandelier above the counter, real crystal, dripping with enough sharp edges to slit a dozen throats.

I take my seat with my back to the far wall.

All exits in sight.

Let her come to me.

The bartender is new, or pretending to be.

He keeps his head down, eyes on the pour.

My glass is on the house tonight.

I slide him a twenty anyway, tell him to leave the bottle, then vanish.

He does, like a ghost.

It stinks like wood polish, old cigarettes, and anticipation.

At precisely 8:00, Sienna walks in.

She’s not what people expect.

She’s not what I expected at first, either.

In her, everything is sharpened to a point, the chin, the cheekbones, the eyes.

Her hair is up tonight, but that streak of silver burns through like a neon warning sign.

The dress is blood red, tight, hitting those curves with deadly intent, but not slutty.

It’s calculated, and the color suits her.

What I notice first: her stride.

Every step measured, hips rolling just enough to distract, but not enough to promise anything.

She scans the room, picks me up without breaking her stride, and closes the distance in silence.

Three weapons, by my count.

Maybe four.

One on the thigh—classic.

One at the ribs—smart, but she’ll have to use her off-hand.

The other is in the clutch she carries, and the last is probably a garrote.

She sits at the next stool over.

Not too close. Not too far.

“You drinking alone, or waiting for someone?” Her voice is a scalpel. It slices right to the bone.

“I was hoping for company,” I say. “Didn’t think you’d show.”

She takes the champagne bottle from the ice bucket, checks the label, then pops it.

The sound is gentle.

Controlled.

She pours two flutes, never breaking eye contact.

She hands me one.

I dip my finger, taste.

She does the same.

She sips, watching me over the rim. “Your bartender is a little green.”

“Experienced ones are harder to bribe.”

She smiles, a real one this time. “Or too scared.”

I shrug. “No one in this room is scared tonight.”

She sets the glass down, spins it once, lets the light catch the bubbles. “Your father wants me dead,” I say.

No need to raise my voice.

She leans in, almost imperceptible. “Most of Vancouver wants you dead.”

I swirl my drink. “But he sent you.”

There’s a flicker in her eyes.

Not surprise.

More like confirmation.

She’s not here for small talk.

“He thinks you’re slipping,” she says.

“He’s wrong.”

She raises her flute. “To being wrong.”

The toast is hollow, but she drinks anyway.

I let the champagne burn down my throat.

It’s one of the best, but the stuff always tasted like shit to me.

“You watched me, watching you from that roof,” she says.

“You wanted to be seen.”

“I wanted you to know that I know everything,” she replies, tapping the glass. “In case you needed to run.”

I shake my head. “I don’t run.”

She watches me in the mirror.

I watch her back.

The whole conversation is a double reflection, neither of us willing to show the real angle.

She sets her hand on the bar, palm down.

The nail polish matches the dress, perfect and deliberate. “You think you’re untouchable.”

I grin. “No one’s untouchable. But some are harder to reach.”

She considers that. “You’re expecting me to try something tonight.”

I nod.

“Do you want me to?”

I finish my drink, pour another. “Depends on what.”

She tilts her head, bares her neck. An invitation, or a dare. “I could kill you right now.”

“Try,” I say, barely above a whisper.

Her hand flashes to her thigh.

The blade is out, edge glinting under the chandelier.

She holds it low, pointed at my femoral artery.

I laugh. “You wouldn’t.”

She shakes her head, almost regretful. “Not here. Too public.”

“You’re not as cold as your father says,” I tell her. “Besides, I cleared the bar out so you’d get your shot.”

She flicks the blade shut, sets it on the bar between us. “Maybe I enjoy the hunt.”

We stare at each other for a long time.

The bartender doesn’t come back. No one does.

“I could offer you a deal,” I say.

She smiles, teeth sharp. “You don’t have anything I want, Mr. Bane.”

“Sure about that?”

She glances at the bottle, then back to me. “You have power. You have leverage. But I don’t want your empire. I want your blood on the floor.”

I stand, slow.

She tenses, hand close to the knife again.

Leaning in, close enough to taste her breath, to say, “Then you’ll have to earn it.”

She laughs, low and genuine. “See you soon, King.”

But she never gets the opportunity to leave.

It happens so fast, my pulse barely has time to speed up.